Birth of a Templar
by Vicious Pink
Summary: Maximilien, the Orlesian Ox, has lost it all to maleficarum. Now he's ready to give it all to the Order. This is his journey to knighthood, set in Ferelden, two years before the Blight.
1. Chapter 1

_9:28 Dragon_

A hulking man with a farmer's tan and graying blond hair entered Denerim's market just before sundown. In one of his dirty hands was an even dirtier sack; the other gripped an axe, the simple tool of a laborer and not a warrior. This fact didn't preclude stares from vendors he passed on his way to a small station near the Chantry. Some of the merchants hastened their evening closing routines, rolling up awnings and locking away goods as soon as he glanced in their directions.

His wrinkled face was marred by two scars: one across his lips and another on his forehead, cutting into his hairline. He wore a threadbare tunic, once white but now a dingy yellow, with sleeves barely held in place by his own crude stitching. He was no tailor, after all. The stuffing of his fur-lined boots poked through holes in the toes and heels, and his pants had no knees. Not that he seemed to need knees, as he had enough of Ferelden's mud caked to his body to cover any bare skin.

Even if his looks suggested he might take his poverty out on the nobles and merchants that frequented the market, he wasn't there to cause trouble. He wasn't even there to shop, which no one would have accused him of in the first place. There was only one reason he'd set foot in Denerim, and that was to seek out the Order.

The Order's office next to the Chantry was always busy during shift changes. Denerim's citizens had a knack for requesting assistance at the same time the templars were briefing the next shift. Perhaps one activity attracted the other, or perhaps people were hesitant to approach the office while it was quiet and mostly empty. You were more likely to be greeted with the Knight-Captain's scowl during the busy times, but there was safety, and anonymity, in a crowd.

The man passed in front of the Chantry and headed toward the cluster of civilians and templars hanging around the station's entrance. He easily pushed past them all; neither soldier nor freeman saw fit to let the filthy man as much as brush against them. He ignored their sneers and entered the building.

In the back of the open room, the Knight-Captain stood behind his desk; a long line of nobles and commoners had formed on the other side. His arms were crossed as he turned down one request after another. The man situated himself at the end of the line, and the person in front of him moved forward as much as he could to avoid being near him. The man was a head taller than most of the others in the room, and it wasn't long before the Knight-Captain took notice of him. The Knight-Captain continued to turn people away, one-by-one, but he threw many curious glances toward the man in the back. No one would get behind him. When it was the man's turn, he stepped forward, stuffed his axe into his worn leather belt and let his bag fall to the ground.

The Knight-Captain snorted. "Well, I should thank you for clearing out that lot; I don't think I could take another suspicion about a neighbor's cousin's daughter's nursemaid being an apostate this evening. But I'm afraid we're not a charity. If you're looking for aid, the Chantry's next door."

The man shook his head. In a thick accent he said, "I do not need charity, only a job. I am here for recruitment, Ser."

The Knight-Captain rubbed his brow and muttered, "And here I thought I'd have a dull night for a change." He looked the man up and down. "What are you, some washed-up Orlesian deserter looking to hide among the Order?"

"Assume what you will, Ser, but I have lived in Amaranthine since I was 18. I was a city guardsman for 22 years-"

"Bloody hell!" the Knight-Captain interrupted. "22 years? Just how old are you?"

The man cast his gaze to the floor. "It is true; I would not be able to serve the Order for long."

The Knight-Captain rounded his desk and stood next to the man. He scratched his chin and looked sidelong at his Orlesian guest. "I'm not in the habit of turning down potential recruits. You look fit enough, and if you've the proper paperwork to prove your employment with the guard, your experience may counter your age. Anyway, the recruitment process never fails to weed out the weak, but I have to wonder what brought you here."

The man paused, swallowing a lump in his throat. "My family was killed by maleficarum. I will honor their memories by dying to protect others from the same fate."

"Just like that, huh?" The Knight-Captain chuckled. "At least you didn't mention anything about revenge."

"Because it is not."

"Look, it's not that I don't sympathize with you, but becoming a templar isn't an answer to your personal problems. It's a way of life, one that takes unwavering devotion to our Maker."

"Good," the man said as he bowed his head, "because faith is all that I have left."

The Knight-Captain sighed, grabbed a logbook from his desk and handed it to the man. "Well, it's not solely my decision. Sign in here and be in front of the Chantry by sunrise tomorrow for inspection and testing."

As the man entered his personal data into the book, the Knight-Captain picked up the man's bag. He stared at the ring of dirt it left behind on the floor. The man exchanged the log for his bag; the Knight-Captain shook his head.

"I would also suggest finding a bar of soap and bucket of water or five before tomorrow. First impressions, you know."

The man nodded, turned around and headed for the front door. He heard the Knight-Captain mumble back the man's information from the log.

"Maximilien, heh. If that were any more Orlesian, it would come with a feather boa."

The man looked over his shoulder and said, "I go by Max. It is much easier for you Fereldans to remember."

He left the building with a smirk on his face and walked toward the Chantry.


	2. Chapter 2

The courtyard between the chantry and the templar's station was littered with straw and stick dummies. Some were knocked to the ground while others were full of protruding arrows. Most looked none the worse for wear, save one that was utterly demolished, transformed to nothing more than a pile of kindling.

The templar recruits were in formation a short distance from the dummies, standing at ease and facing their training officer. He gripped one of the intact dummies and dragged it across the ground as he paced in front of his recruits. An excruciating lull in the courtyard was filled only with the sound of a flock of starlings flying overhead and landing noisily in a nearby tree. At last, the officer stopped, glanced once at his squad, frowned, then flung the dummy into the stone wall next to their formation. Several recruits startled at the sudden violence.

The Knight-Lieutenant's voice boomed throughout the courtyard.

"Ox! Front and center!"

Max wished the Lieutenant would call him by his actual name. He wasn't fond of being reminded of his size every time one of his superiors used his newly-acquired nickname. Well, at least he wasn't nicknamed "old man" or the like.

"Yesser!" replied Max, who stepped out of formation, ran behind the other templar recruits and dashed over to the Lieutenant's side. He faced the rest of his squad, standing at attention.

The Knight-Lieutenant paced in front of Max with his hands locked behind his back.

"Recruits," he said, "the man before you is likely twice your age, yet I ask, who outperformed all of you in our latest drill?"

_Do not keep them in suspense, _Max thought as the Knight-Lieutenant paused in front of a recruit and looked him over from head to toe. With a sniff, he turned around. Max stealthily broke attention and looked at the Lieutenant out of the corner of his eye, just enough to see the deep-set scowl on the officer's face.

The Knight-Lieutenant returned to his place in front of the squad, next to Max. He wiped a hand down his face.

"Pathetic! Maker, save us all, but if this is what our citizens have to look forward to for protection from the forbidden arts, then I weep for the future. None of you has met today's goal, except for Ox," he said, putting a hand on Max's shoulder, "and we shouldn't have to rely on people that are already veterans."

Once again, someone assumed Max had fought during the rebellion. He wasn't _that _old. Max fought back the urge to correct the Lieutenant. _Just play along; the day is almost done._

The Knight-Lieutenant raised his voice and pointed at his squad. "I ask again, who outperformed you?"

The recruits muttered replies that included Max's name, his nickname, his origin, "that one," and much to his chagrin, "the old man." He wondered if the Lieutenant would notice the more insolent answers. The officer seemed more concerned about continuing his reprimand than listening to individual replies.

"I can't hear you!"

A single voice among the recruits uttered, "Ox!"

The Lieutenant pointed at the recruit, a young man with black hair and sharp features. Max recognized him as one of the few archers in the squad.

"Yes! Say it again!" shouted the Knight-Lieutenant.

"Ox!" the squad said in unison, their cries carrying above the Chantry's bells, now summoning believers to recite the Chant for the final time that day. The squad began chanting his nickname, some of them pumping their fists in the air while doing so. Max felt both proud to be singled out for his skilled participation in target practice, and embarrassed to be the center of attention during the call to prayer. He would double his time in recitation before bed to make up for being late to Vespers.

The Knight-Lieutenant called the squad to attention, gave them a final warning about the lack of fortitude, and dismissed them for the evening. Relieved, Max retrieved his mace and shield from the nearby weapon stand, holstered them, and made quick strides in the direction of the Chantry. He was cut short, however, by the officer. Max grudgingly wandered back to the Knight-Lieutenant.

"I need to speak with you and Castor for a moment," said the officer as he grabbed the black-haired archer by the upper arm as he walked by. The man looked startled.

"Ser?" he asked, securing his bow behind his back.

The Lieutenant nodded. "I've been ordered by the Knight-Captain to assemble the most promising recruits to accompany a small team for a special mission."

Castor smirked. "And the 'most promising' include the one with elven blood and the Orlesian grandfather?"

Castor was part elf? Max wondered why he hadn't noticed it in the young recruit before. He gave him a once-over, and sure enough, everything elven about the man became apparent, including his broad forehead, large, jewel-like eyes of green, and slightly pointed ears. Even if those with mixed blood were always human, they could not escape their elven ancestry completely.

"That's ten demerits, Castor!" the officer snapped back. Castor bit his lip. Max almost laughed.

"I hesitate to say he has a point, Ser," said Max, "but..."

The officer sighed. "Yes, yes. On the surface, your pairing looks downright comical, but Maker, if you lot aren't the most hapless recruits I've seen since Cailan took the throne."

Max and Castor looked at each other. Castor shrugged. "Are we that terrible?"

The Lieutenant gestured toward the two recruits. "Not you two. Besides, this mission calls for certain skills that you've both more than mastered." He pointed at Castor. "The Captain needs a ranger. And Ox, well, no one can take blows like you and still remain upright."

Castor raised an eyebrow. "So, you need a tracker and someone to put a shield in front of him, right?"

The Knight-Lieutenant shook his head. "Don't simplify it, Castor. You'll have experienced templars with you. If you want to move up in training, this is your opportunity." He started pacing again. "We've received reports of a band of maleficarum in the Brecilian Forest, apparently using the woods to cover their movements."

Max snorted. "May the Void take them! Is the veil not thin enough in the forest that we could simply leave them to their own demises?"

Castor nodded in agreement.

"I'll pretend you didn't just suggest the templars ignore a known threat," said the Knight-Lieutenant as he stepped closer to Max. "You make it sound like you already know the limitations of mages. You can't color your perception of magic based on your experience alone, no matter how many mages you took out that day."

Max looked at the ground while his face grew hot. He slowly curled his fingers into fists, held his breath for a few seconds, then exhaled and unfurled his hands. He looked up in time to see Castor furrow his brow and glance sideways at Max. He would have some explaining to do later to his soon-to-be partner.

The Knight-Lieutenant went on. "In any case, neither of you are in a position to refuse this mission. Details will be given tomorrow at the station; be there early, before formation. Dismissed." The officer left quickly, leaving the two recruits no time to ask more questions.

Castor shrugged and turned to Max. "Well, partner, looks like we have our first assignment." He walked across the courtyard and began pulling arrows from dummies and returning the best ones to his quiver. Max eventually joined him.

"We could be gone for weeks," Max said, handing Castor another arrow. "Do you have family that should be informed of your absence?"

Castor let out a quick laugh. "Ha! I was given to the Chantry when I was eight. I doubt anyone would miss me if I didn't write them for a few weeks. What about you?"

"No, not anyone of importance." He paused in front of the dummy he had pulverized earlier and stared at it. He suddenly felt ashamed of the unbridled anger he had taken out on something that wasn't even real. Images of his family, running and screaming from their burning house, flashed before him. So did the image of Max strangling one of the mages that caused the fire. He rubbed his brow as Castor sidled up to him and looked at the dummy's remains.

"You should have seen your fury from my viewpoint," said Castor. "I thought maybe this stick man had insulted you, wounded your pride. Called Orlais a land of pompous bastards with cheese breath."

Max sighed. "I need to control myself. This is unacceptable."

"On the contrary," Castor said, "the templars think it's quite acceptable. Bloody rage is what they're looking for. That's why you were singled out."

Max frowned and shook his head. As true as that statement may have been, it scared Max. He decided to change the subject. He glanced at Castor. "Where is yours?"

Castor laughed. "Nothing impressive, mind you, but it's that one," he said, pointing at a dummy with a lone arrow sticking out of its stuffed head.

Max nodded his head in approval. "How far away were you?"

"Actually, I was on the other side of the wall. I stacked a few crates, climbed them, aimed and fired. I found it pointless to waste more arrows after the first one landed where it did. I think the Lieutenant was angry that I gave up after that."

"One shot, one kill. Whatever the Knight-Lieutenant thought about it, I am impressed."

Castor smiled then cleared his throat. "We could stay here and continue to pat each other on the backs, or we could join the others inside. What say you, partner?"

"I say prayer before praise. We will talk more later, comrade."

Castor clapped Max's shoulder and the two walked out of the courtyard's gates. Max couldn't wait to enter the Chantry. He had a lot of praying to do.


	3. Chapter 3

_It is said that if you feel you are being watched in the Brecilian Forest, you are.  
-Leliana_

Every land had its lawless region, its frontier where outsiders and bandits found sanctuary away from civilized society. Ferelden's just happened to mix a hefty dose of the spirit world with ancient ruins and dense vegetation. It was more than an enchanted forest, it was an opening to the beyond. It was a popular destination for ambitious magic users who hoped to consort with elements of the Fade. For templars willing to hunt these mages, it was usually a death trap.

Max hoped there was safety in numbers and experience. The scouting team he was a part of consisted of a half-dozen templars and recruits; most of them had braved the Brecilian Forest several times. These were not typical, full-metal armor templars who stormed maleficar strongholds, performed holy smite then cut through the enemy until victory was theirs. No, these were templars who traded heavy plate for flexible leather, and might for cunning. This was the only way to survive a mission through the forest.

Castor, an adept ranger, was in his element, but the mighty defender, Maximilien, felt out of place. His party had entered the forest a day ago, and only by the Maker's grace had he lived through the first night.

It was midday, and an unnatural greenish-yellow light shone through the woods, turning sallow the complexions of the templar scouting party. Max thought perhaps they actually were sick; he certainly felt queasy about wading through the haze of spirits mingling with nature. Every step Max took seemed to land on ground that sighed and shifted under his weight. Branches from trees he brushed against felt more like hands pushing him along in a predetermined direction, with no regard to his own plans. The vegetation wailed as he hacked away at it and carved a path for his fellow teammates. The wind whispered a long-forgotten elven poem and clouded Max's mind with alien language. Once the group entered a small clearing, he took in a deep breath to cleanse his senses, but the caustic air cut his breath short. He clutched at his chest and coughed, lurching forward.

Castor put an arm out to catch Max from falling to the ground.

"There's no need," said Max, straightening his posture. "I just breathed in a-a…"

"Demon?" asked Castor, looking warily at his surroundings. "I know that feeling. I think I'm halfway to becoming an abomination already."

"Hush!" Another scout entered the conversation. It was Ser Roseen, a seasoned templar who was reaching the end of her service… and her sanity. She grabbed Castor's upper arm and glanced about, flinching. "They can hear you, and worse, they understand you! If Ox is truly possessed, then we must pray for him immediately." She pulled Castor to kneeling in front of Max. Castor looked up at Max, who shrugged back at his friend and smiled. Castor rolled his eyes before bowing his head along with Roseen.

Max looked down at Roseen. Her mousy brown hair was piled into a messy knot on top of her head. Years of lyrium consumption had drained the color from her eyes and skin, so that she was ghastly even without help from the sick glow of the forest. Her uniform was old and disheveled; its straps hung slack and Max had helped her straighten her shoulder and arm guards three times already that afternoon. They were so loose they kept falling out of place.

Once a brilliant, determined knight, Roseen was no longer keen with large blades and mostly wielded small weapons, like stilettos. She talked incessantly of her past but confused the dates of everything and added history lessons into her timeline. Sometimes she sounded like she knew Andraste personally.

Her true asset presently was her divine ability to sense magic. She would begin to hum and shiver the closer she got to it, until she was belting out full refrains of her favorite chants and convulsed like a madwoman. Despite her diminutive weapons and lack of focus, she was a scary presence during battle, a wild X-factor that would sing hymns and recite the Chant as she felled her foes in pure, chaotic fury. It was only her fear of being so close to the Fade that kept her in line while traveling through the forest, but only barely.

"O virtuous Maker," prayed Roseen quietly, "we give Thee-"

Ser Einar, a younger templar, pulled Roseen from the ground and shook her gently. "Snap out of it, Roseen! There is nothing wrong with Ox other than a bad case of nerves."

Max looked away, embarrassed.

Roseen pushed Einar away and pulled some of her unkempt hair behind her ears. She pointed at Einar. "You don't have to respect the wood, but you must at least recognize its power. It knows who we are, that we do not belong, and it will feed on our weakness." She looked around nervously.

Max spoke up. "I assume you are talking about me, Ser? I will be fine. I merely… swallowed a bug. Yes, a nasty little thing. At least I am rid of it."

Castor stifled a laugh, while Roseen narrowed her gaze at Max. "You may believe it was only a bug, but-"

Einar interrupted. "All right, I think we've had just about enough of these distractions for today." He looked up at the sky. "Maker, but why did the Knight-Lieutenant insist the old bat come along?"

Castor tapped Einar's shoulder and directed his attention to the rest of the scouting party, who were just about caught up with Einar's group. "Maybe you could ask her yourself."

Einar sneered at Knight-Lieutenant Ivone as she stepped into the clearing. She shook her head and laughed.

"Your expression is unbecoming, Ser Einar. Unless there's a demon standing behind me… let's see… hm, no, that's not it. I take it I've done something to offend you?"

Einar continued to glare at Ivone as he snapped a branch off a tree at the edge of the forest. "No, Ser, but I am tired of playing nursemaid to two recruits and a lunatic."

Max stepped in front of Einar. "I beg your pardon, Ser, but I seem to recall Ser Roseen and Castor tracking the witches all this way without your assistance. And if you are unhappy with the path I blaze for our team, please speak to me directly."

Einar's face grew red, and he looked away. He sighed and ran his fingers through his dark red hair. He began cursing under his breath. Max wasn't mad at Einar. He knew the forest was getting to Einar just like it had already gotten under his own skin. Einar had been clutching a small pouch for the last two days, juggling it and milking it in his hands when he wasn't occupied with Roseen's outbursts or his other duties. Max knew exactly what was in the pouch. He knew that soon enough he would be in Einar's shoes.

Ivone cleared her throat and cast a stern look at Einar. "It's time for a break, to clear our heads. We should be fine in this glade as long as we stay close to the tree line. Einar? I need a word with you." She pulled the angry templar aside.

The rest of the group began unpacking for their afternoon meal. Max and Castor sat under a tree a short distance from Roseen and the last templar of their party, Ser Godred. As a recruit, Max didn't feel comfortable socializing with the fully-knighted of the group, and Castor seemed to follow Max's lead most of the time.

Max pulled out a small loaf of barley bread from the bag he shared with Castor. He and Castor prayed before breaking off pieces for themselves. Ser Godred, a usually stoic man, invited himself and Ser Roseen over to the recruits' sitting spot and regaled the group with a tale of his time in the Free Marches. Max felt welcome at last.

Halfway through the break, Castor became restless. He packed up his shared bag without first asking Max and walked into the clearing. Max stood up, straightened his armor and called to Castor.

"Where are you going?" asked Max. "You shouldn't be out in the open like that."

Castor shifted his gaze to the tree the group was resting under. He readied his bow, alarming Max. "I don't think so, Ox. I think we're safer out here than near-"

The tree cracked and the earth shook. Max and the rest of the group scattered from their places as the tree appeared to be falling right on top of them. Max scurried to Castor's side just in time to witness the tree not fall, but unfurl into an enormous wooden beast. It bellowed as it uprooted itself, uncurling long, spindly limbs and fingers, razor sharp and poised to lash out at the party of holy warriors. Max unsheathed his sword. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to fight a giant, walking tree, but he would do whatever it took to protect his party.

Castor lowered his bow and stared with mouth agape at the monster. "That… I was not expecting."

Max looked at his friend, astonished. "What? Then why did you act like you were about to shoot it?"

"There's a person hiding in the damned thing! I saw flashes of light while we were eating and finally looked up to see a suit of armor." He pointed at the high branches. "See it there?"

Max squinted, looking for signs of shiny metal. "No one climbs trees wearing a full suit!"

The tree cocked an arm back then swept it in front of its body, batting Einar into the field. As Einar struggled to his feet, the tree locked the templar in a magic prison of roots that sprung out of the earth. Einar screamed in pain as the roots began to crush him, but his scream was cut short as the roots bound him like a serpent squeezing its prey.

"And trees don't attack people, yet this one is going to turn Einar into templar pulp if we don't move our asses!" Castor pulled a special fire arrow from his quiver and aimed. He let loose the arrow, which arced then landed among the tree's branches. Leaves quickly spread fire to much of treetop. The beast howled and thrashed.

Max taunted the beast, which turned its attention to him, rather than Castor. It captured Max in its tight roots, just as it had Einar. Max was paralyzed; he couldn't even move his arms to slash through the prison. He attempted to breathe, but the roots were quickly collapsing his midsection.

Lieutenant Ivone waved her sword in the air and chanted, cleansing the area of magic and freeing Einar and Max from their prisons. Ser Godred helped them to their feet, and after catching their breath, they rejoined the fray. Max stayed by Castor, challenging the beast to attack him and not his friend. Castor continued to punish the creature with devastating fire arrows.

Ivone, Godred and Einar performed holy attacks on the tree, crippling it from using magical effects. Roseen, however, was barely visible to Max. She had rushed the beast with poison-tipped daggers and used them to grip the tree and swiftly climb its trunk, leaving a ladder of daggers in her wake. Max could still hear her, cursing the demon within the tree. He could only imagine she was somewhere among the blazing branches, snapping them off in her fit of fury.

The tree, flailing, struck the templars on the front line and tossed Roseen from its branches. Max watched in horror as his teammates were knocked unconscious. He gritted his teeth and charged. With all of his weight behind his shield, he bashed the burning, lurching tree. It fell to the ground, snuffing out its fire. Max jumped on top and ran his sword through the trunk again and again, unsure where the heart of a demonic tree was. He could only hope one of his plunges would connect with its core.

Less than a minute later, a final, hopeless moan escaped its body and it reverted to a lifeless piece of charred wood. Max sheathed his sword and wiped his brow, hopping down from the trunk. He and Castor helped their fellow templars to standing, and the group assessed their injuries. Einar and Ivone helped dress a gash along Roseen's arm, while Godred looked the tree over.

"You wouldn't find these in Starkhaven," he said, poking his sword at a branch.

There was a _clank_ as his blade hit something hard and possibly metal. The rest of the party turned their attention to the unusual sound. Max recalled what Castor had claimed about armor earlier.

"What in the…" Godred speared the tree and came up with a battered spaulder looped to his blade. Castor and Max rushed to Godred.

"I knew it!" exclaimed Castor. "Well, I guess the fire took care of whoever was about to ambush us."

Max crouched and pushed aside branches and leaves to reveal the rest of the body. He couldn't confirm that the fire had taken the person's life. What was apparent was that the corpse was old and that it belonged to one of the Order.

Godred gasped. "Maker's breath! This… this beast was a templar collector!"

"A demon with a grudge, I take it." Castor scratched his chin. "Any way we can identify the body?"

Max carefully searched the templar, wary he might break its brittle remains. Around its neck he found a gold chain and an amulet in the shape of Andraste's holy flame. Many templars wore these symbols, but this one was especially intricate. On the back of the amulet was an engraving. Max read it aloud.

"Andraste watch over and protect you, my dear Ambrus."

A sudden scream came from Roseen. Max turned around just in time to see her break free from Einar and Ivone, bandages flying through the air as she ran to the tree and pushed Max aside. She collapsed next to the body and grabbed the amulet. She ran her fingers over it and wailed.

"Ambrus! Oh, Ambrus. I told you, _told you,_ to take me with you! Why didn't you let me come?" She fell into the templar's breastplate, cried and mumbled his name repeatedly.

Max backed away to give Roseen room. She was lost in her embrace. Ivone and Einar joined the others next to the tree, rolling up a trail of gauze on their way. Max was surprised to see hints of sadness—perhaps sympathy—in Einar's eyes. Ivone was the first to speak, looking down at Roseen. She spoke softly.

"Ser Ambrus's last mission was to Lothering. That was nearly a year ago. We never heard if he made it to the Chantry. There were several rumors about possible desertion, but it appears that he made a bold—and fatal—move to take a shortcut through this forest."

"That's how it appears, yes," said Einar, "but it could be a cover-up as well. I wouldn't put it past any maleficar to make it look like the forest did him in."

Ivone cocked an eyebrow and smirked at Einar. "Dear boy, you're starting to sound like Roseen."

Einar grunted.

Max watched Roseen, and a pang of understanding flared in him. There were pyres in his mind, flashes of burning bodies and the sting of smoke in his eyes. He felt the release of souls rising to meet the Maker. It was bittersweet. It was unfair.

People believed templars were incapable of love, or at least unwilling to let it get in their way. However, templars were people, too, and nature was inevitable. Roseen and Ambrus were inevitable. There wasn't enough lyrium in all of Thedas to cancel out love. If the Chantry truly wanted apathetic warriors, they would build golems.

Max turned to Ivone. "This man deserves a pyre. Roseen deserves closure."

Ivone nodded. She bent down and put a gentle hand on Roseen's shoulder. "We've traveled far enough today. Let's start a fire before it gets dark."

She stood up and bowed her head. For several minutes the only sound from the group was Roseen's soft crying. One by one, the group left her side and gathered kindling.

_Ashes we were, and ashes we become…_


End file.
